About five months ago, my great-grandma died.
At the time, the saddest part about that day and her funeral was seeing my then 11-year-old brother pretend he was okay and try to hold it together for all of the adults who were losing it.
After months of helping people deal with their feelings and supporting them throughout their own grieving process, I forgot to grieve myself.
I’m a little disappointed that I put off grieving until Christmas Day, especially since the signs were obvious months before, but sometimes people hold in emotions for so long in order to shield their loved ones from reality that, eventually, they explode.
On Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday, I didn’t allow myself to enjoy the homemade stuffing and mashed potatoes or the pumpkin pie. Instead, I complained about everything.
The energy in the house was different and I knew why.
Thanksgiving was always the holiday when my great-grandma spent hours cooking for everyone. She was always a giver; she was very considerate and never let her grandchildren leave the house hungry or cookie-less.
The gloomy moods everyone was trying to hide were not the only thing that separated this year’s holiday from the previous ones.
Our family traditions were nonexistent.
For example, someone put fake butter on the table.
Now, I pointed it out as a joke. And as I reached into the refrigerator to grab the real butter, I was instantly scolded for pointing out the differences of this year’s holiday.
But I knew for a fact my great-grandma would faint if she ever saw fake butter on the table.
Not only was Thanksgiving unfamiliar, but Christmas was foreign and distant as well. It felt like an ordinary, crappy day.
The same people that have always attended Christmas at my grandparents’ were not there. The same foods I looked forward to eating for a year were not prepared.
My mom didn’t make her famous pumpkin roll and even said she didn’t mind when my sister and I showed up at the wrong time, when there’s typically a strict schedule to follow.
I freaked out. I complained about everything again, taking my frustration and anger out on everyone around me.
I couldn’t help it. If my great-grandma would have been there, everything would have been planned and there would be no chaos.
Finally, my sister saw right through me and said, “You’re not mad at me. Or my boyfriend. Or what time we got here. You’re mad that grandma is dead and isn’t here and holidays are not the same. And they never will be.”
I started crying, not because my sister can be extremely harsh, but because she’s right.
Following the routine my grandma always followed makes her not being here hurt a little less. Having these family traditions makes me feel like a part of her is still here.
I know all of this probably sounds cliché, but family is important and I think, even though Christmas was horrible this year, it’s the first time I’ve truly been thankful for my family.
Even if they are the only ones to call my bluff.
